Death to Spottie
by Madison Square
Summary: Modern. Rated for language and violence. Fifty-nine minutes left and Spot's not having so much fun anymore. CH 3 up! R&R please.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer:  No, I don't own Newsies…Yet.  Mwah ha ha ha ha.  
  
  
==  
  
  
Death to Spottie  
  
  
==  
  
  
Madison Square   
  
  
==  
  
  
Prologue  
  
  
==  
  
  
            He wasn't supposed to see it happen.  Racetrack had been careless, too careless.  He had wanted to finish the job quickly, get it over with, and he didn't consider that someone may have been watching.  
            Spot wasn't supposed to see the murder.  
  
  
==  
  
  
            It started as a normal, bright and sunny day with the air crisp like fresh apples.  It was maybe a week before the college term started, and at the Walker Residence Hall of NYU—_the_ New York University—a couple hundred unfortunate college freshmen were trapped inside the stuffy dormitory, unpacking.    
            Racetrack had already finished unpacking and was busy listening to a couple of illegally-downloaded songs of the rock genre on his brand new I-pod, waiting for his roommates to show up.  He didn't have to wait long.  
            Soon a young man with curly brown hair and alert blue eyes stumbled through the door, laden with patchy leather suitcases that didn't match.   
            Oh, Lord, he was probably here on a _scholarship_.  
            He was wearing worn jeans that were ripped at the knees and a blue T-shirt.  He regarded Racetrack a bit warily, but then flashed a weak smile and said:  
            "Uh, hi."  
            Racetrack looked at the other boy's scuffed brown leather shoes.  They looked like old concert shoes.  He turned off his I-pod with a huff.  
            "Hey."  
            "Uh, my name's David Jacobs, but I guess you could call me Dave."  The corner of his lip twitched, as if unsure to smile or frown because his parents burdened him with such a dull name.  
            "Racetrack."  
            "Huh?"  
            "Racetrack," he repeated.  "That's my _name_."  He gave Dave a quizzical look, like _are you slow, or something?_  
            Dave turned his azure eyes away.  "Uh, right."  There was a moment of silence, then, "So, which bunk's mine?"  
            Race was sitting on a bed with light blue sheets and a matching comforter nestled into the corner of the room.  Another bed, naked, slumped in the opposite corner.  In between, a daybed sat under the large central window.  
            "You choose."  
            Dave didn't like daybeds, and he wasn't sure he would like Racetrack, either, so he chose the bed in the other corner.  
  
  
==  
  
  
            While Dave unpacked his things, Race daydreamed.  About his new life, about the girls he would meet, about the clubs he would frequent, about how _normal_ all of it would be.  Yes, normal.  Away from his crazy Italian family, always asking for crazy stupid favors.  
            Something vibrated in his back change pocket and he realized it was his cell phone.  When Racetrack answered it, he heard his father's voice say to him, "Hello, Anthony." A pregnant pause.    
            "I need a favor."  
  
  
==  
  
  
            That night Racetrack shot someone in the ally between two loud clubhouses with a gun that wasn't really his.  
            _"He is very irritating," his father had said.  "He is annoying me, Anthony.  I want him dead."_  His father hadn't given him any other reason.  
            After the gunshot echoed off the walls of the two neighboring buildings, Racetrack pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed the weapon vigorously, careful not to let his hands touch the metal again.  When he turned to run towards the safe spot his father had planned for him, he saw a shadow standing at the other end of the ally.  He saw sharp, cold blue eyes.  And then the shadow fled.  
            Cursing his luck, Racetrack retrieved his cell phone and quickly punched in a number.  There were three rings before his father picked up his line.  
            "Dad.  We have a problem."  
  
  
==  
  
  
            The next day it was raining, and no one felt much like running about in cold rain, so the students were once again forced to spend another day wasting time with things like summer reading requirements.  
            Dave was having a _ball_ of it, actually.  Sitting there on his bed, going through his book list and taking notes and sticking post-its everywhere.  His bed was covered in yellow paper feathers.  It looked like Big Bird had been run over by a few trucks.  
            Racetrack was still sleeping; it was only one o'clock p.m. after all, and he had a rough night.  
            He jerked awake, however, when his phone shrieked what should have been the melody of _Fur Elise_.  David looked over, miffed, but decided to ignore Racetrack and resumed studying.  
            "Fucking phone," Race grumbled as he pressed the green phone symbol on his keypad.  "Yes?" he said after bringing it to his ear.  
            "Anthony."  It was his father.  "I think we've found the little…ahem…_problem_ we were talking about yesterday."  
            "Yeah?"  
            "_Yes_."  Racetrack winced.  
            "There is a black car parked outside your residency.  Get in."  Click.  The line went dead.  
            Racetrack rose from the bed and rummaged through his dresser along the adjacent wall until he pulled out a nice, slightly rumpled blue polo shirt and yanked it over his head.  The khakis he wore yesterday were on the floor, and he put those on, too, over his red boxers.  He was oblivious to the speckle of dried blood on his pant leg.  
            Shuffling towards the door, he slipped on a pair of black flip-flops and said, "Gotta go, bye."  
            David grunted in response.  
  
  
==  
  
  
            "_That's_ him?"  Racetrack was in the black car with tinted windows that allowed people to see out but not in, looking at pictures of the witness on the laptop computer.  "He's, like, nothing."  Racetrack stared hard at the picture.  
            The data next to the images on the screen of the laptop informed him that the stranger was five feet, eight inches, one hundred thirty pounds, and eighteen years old.  It didn't matter that really Race would be shorter than him; Racetrack was pretty sure he'd be a puny guy.  _130 pounds!_  He could be blown over by a gust of wind.    
            He opened another picture file: the witness coming out of a store with a plastic bag full of CDs.  Simon Conlon, the title was.  
            "So what're we gonna do about him?" he addressed a burly man with sunglasses and a black suit.  
            "Mr. Higgins"—his father—"says you should find him.  Ask him if he's called the police.  If he has, kill him.  If he hasn't, kill him.  That's all."  The burly man allowed a few moments for the orders to sink into the young Italian's mind, then pointed at the door.  
            Race left the car in a daze, not noticing the rain was soaking him and making the spot of blood on his khakis grow bigger and bigger.  
  
  
==  
  
  
            When Racetrack reached his dorm room on the third floor, the daybed was made and there were suitcases in a pile in front of the bed.  
            "Hey," David chirped.  He was in a noticeably better mood.  "You missed our new roommate coming in.  He's cool.  I told him you'd be back soon." Dave motioned towards the bathroom door that was close to his bed. "He's in there, drying off."  Then he went back to reading.  
            Five minutes later the bathroom door opened and the best looking man in boxer shorts Race had ever seen stepped out.  He was tan, with dark blonde hair and high cheekbones and lips that could form the perfect, sexy pout.  He could have been a model, if he were tall enough.  The stranger stared openly at Racetrack with familiar, piercing blue eyes, unabashed.  "Do I know you?" he said in a deep voice.  That was when realization dawned on the Italian.  
            "No," he said quickly,_ but I know you_, he added to himself.  
            It was Simon Conlon, his new roommate, and his newest target.  
            "I'm Spot," Simon said, holding out his hand.  Racetrack took it.  
            "I'm Racetrack Higgins."  
            He foresaw complications in the near future.  
  
  
==  
  
  
End Prologue  
  
  
==  
  
  
[A/N]:  My muses made me right it, I swear!  They threatened to withhold big chocolate chunk cookies from me if I didn't write it!  I am so ashamed of myself.  I should have been working on See Spot Run, or Letters to an Almost Cowboy.  Ergh.  Actually, I've _planned_ out See Spot Run!  It's AMAZING.  Normally I write on impulse, and _planning_ something has never happened before.  []dances[].  
  
  
Read and Review PLEASE!!!


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer:  Nope, don't own Newsies.  
  
[A/N]: Just revised a little bit.  Added something I left out.  
  
==  
  
Death to Spottie  
  
==  
  
Chapter One   
  
==  
  
Madison Square  
  
==  
  
            "Dad, I can't do it."  It has been a week since Racetrack met Spot and Dave, and most of the students ambled about on the streets, trying to enjoy their last weekend of freedom.  Dave had been awake since eight o'clock a.m. sharp and since had gone to a study group in a room across the hall.  It was now 10:43 a.m., and Racetrack was desperately trying to weasel out of his latest assignment.  He perched on the edge of the slightly yellowed bathtub, cell phone against his ear, with the bathroom door shut and locked.  He hadn't felt comfortable talking to his father in the bedroom about his target with Spot still sleeping in the room.  
            "And, why not, Anthony?"  Mr. Higgin's voice was clipped and toneless.  
            Race searched his mind for a reasonable answer.  He couldn't find one.  "Because he's my _roommate_," he whispered through clenched teeth.  "I can't go around killing my college roommates."  
            "You are not _going around_ killing _college roommates_.  You are protecting your _family_ by eliminating a _threat_."  
            "He probably hasn't told anybody."  
            "Have you _asked_ him?"  
            Racetrack suddenly felt very small against his father's voice.  
            "Well, no."

            "Then how do you know?"  
  
==  
  
            In the few days that followed his introduction to Dave and Spot, Race spent time getting to know fellow freshmen, and he found he had Spot figured out pretty well.  He thought he did, at least.  
            In the mornings Spot always went to the Coffee Tree to get his daily dose of caffeine, then until noon walked slowly around the local parks and gave tips, both musical and monetary, to the street musicians.  He didn't eat lunch, which explained his thin figure.  It seemed that the only thing he ate all day was a croissant to go with his coffee for breakfast and a small dinner.  Racetrack didn't know him well enough to realize that Spot ate junk food like a crazed addict when he was alone.

As far as Racetrack was concerned, Spot was a normal, average college freshman.  He seemed nice—helping people unpack, stopping a few fights, and even making a few upper-classmen friends.  
            Thursday, however, this image of Spot was shattered.  Race was strolling back to his room from a lunch he had with Jack, someone he had met from down the hall, when he saw Dave sitting on the floor outside their door, his head in his hands.  Normally, Race wouldn't have cared, but there was loud, slit-your-wrist rock music shaking the dorm and he figured that whatever problem Dave was having probably concerned him as well.  
            He kicked Dave gently with his foot.  "Hey."  
            Dave looked up.  At least he wasn't crying.  
            Racetrack looked at their closed door and flinched when something heavy crashed into it.  "What's going on in there?"  
            "Uh, not really sure."  Dave laughed weakly.  "Don't go in there, though.  I think he's going through something.  I came back from study group and then he stormed in there and told me to get out.  And then…"  He looked at the door woefully.  Something slammed against it in response.  
            Racetrack noticed that a small crowd had gathered in the narrow hall, trying to look inconspicuous.  
            "Isn't that Spot's room?" a girl with long blonde hair asked.  
            "Yeah, poor Spot," another blonde said.  They left, shaking their heads and swaying their hips.  
_            Poor Spot?_  What about the room?  It sounded like it was in shambles.  
            A few minutes of angry music and loud thumps against the wall passed, and then suddenly the music was gone, replaced by a suffocating silence that seeped through the walls into every room.  The whole world waited with their breaths held.  
            Spot opened the door and everybody watching left nervously, pretending they had seen nothing.  Those who were unfortunate enough to meet Spot's icy eyes quickly turned away, meek.  
            Dave stood up slowly, as if any sudden movement would send Spot into frenzy.  He tried to say something, opened his mouth, and when no sound came out, closed it again.  Racetrack was more to the point.  
            "What the hell was that?"  
            "We might have to fix up the walls.  Just a little."  
            "What the _Hell_ was that?" Racetrack repeated, louder.  Spot glared at him with blue-marble eyes, and Racetrack was surprised when he shrank back involuntarily.  
            "I'm getting a drink."  Spot walked away, the energy around him crackling, sizzling.  
            When Racetrack and Dave peeked through the open door, they saw dust and plaster and holes in the wall.  They saw Spot's bed messy, with sheets ripped, and white feather everywhere.  They saw a glass bowl in the center of the room, a wadded up paper ball afire inside.  
            After they frantically extinguished the fire, the picture of a pretty brunette in the arms of Simon Conlon was barely distinguishable.  
  
==  
  
            On Friday something strange happened.  Spot and Race were at a party on the fourth floor of their dormitory.  Not together, of course, but it was nice to know a few people there.  
            The party had been advertised as 'Open your Doors and BYOB.'  Masses of people shifted in and out of various rooms, some with doors open, other with doors closed.  People emerging from closed doors usually had eyes glazed over or cheeks bright red.  
            Racetrack was talking to Jack, both sipping at their beers lightly, not wanting to make asses of themselves until later on in the night.  They stood next to the doorframe; someone with a screwdriver and a couple of beers had decided to unhinge the door and throw it in the middle of the street (after much lugging about and bumps and bruises).  A cooler stood next to them at their feet, bright red, open, and beckoning.  A living area was situated to their side, complete with a sofa, a loveseat, and a coffee table.  
            Spot was drinking every single person he came across under the table.  He had no problem making an ass of himself, anytime.  
            "I _am_ the King of Brooklyn!" Spot cried, flinging his arms wide and then climbing onto the short table.  "Bow to me, fools!"

            Jack looked at him, concern in his chocolate eyes.  "I'm worried about him."  
            "You mean his mental state?" Race quipped, always one for sarcasm.  
            There was a moment's silence where Jack sipped against at his beer.  "I guess so."  Sip.  "Someone should, you know, check on him."  
            "Why?" asked Race bluntly, swallowing the rest of his alcoholic beverage.  
            "Don't you know?"  Jack's eyes were starting to become unfocused.  Racetrack shook his head.  
            "I thought you guys were, like, roommates, or something?"  
            "Yeah, so?"  The empty beer bottle dangled between Race's fingers.  
            "So, don't you _talk_ about anything?"  Jack leaned close to Race's face, scrutinizing him.  Race briefly wondered why Jack wasn't hanging around his other friends; he was so _pretty_.  Brunette hair, brown eyes, nice build.  But then Race remembered.  Oh yeah, Jack was _weird_.  His goal in life was to move to _Santa Fe_.  Who would want to live in the middle of nowhere when he's got New York?  
            "No."  Race narrowed his eyes.  "Has he told _you_ anything?  How do you know him?"  
            "Old friend of mine, back in middle school.  We went to different high schools, though.  He's told me things."  
            Things, Racetrack thought.  Things like how he saw a murder take place in the ally between two clubs things?  Things like that?  The sweat was cold against Race's temples.  He needed another beer.  
            And miraculously, a bottle appeared before his eyes.  Attached to the bottle was a hand, then an arm, then Spot, grinning like someone who was very, very drunk.  It only took a moment for the Italian to realize that he, in fact, was.  
            "Hey Spot," Jack said, his voice slow.  Racetrack took the beer in front of him and mumbled a quick thanks.  
            "You will speak when spoken to, vermin," Spot demanded of Jack.  "I am the King of Brooklyn."  He puffed out his chest and put his hands on his hips.  He actually looked intimidating, but whether it was because of the stance or because of the manic look in Spot's eyes, Race didn't know.  The effect was ruined when he burst into a fit of unmanly giggles and draped an arm over Jack's shoulders.  Jack looked at him with furrowed eyebrows.  
            "How much have you had to drink?"  He clucked like a mother hen.  
            "Not talking about me, I hope."  Spot had a way of evading questions, Race knew, because at that moment he recalled what he and Jack had been discussing and all thoughts of Spot's drinking problems fled.  Race shuffled nervously on his feet.  
            "Actually, we were."  The shorter boy shot an annoyed look at Jack.  
            "Oh?"  Spot stood up straighter and brought his arms to his sides.  His eyes changed into blue marble again as he glared at them both in turn.  It was amazing how frightening he could be.  He was _drunk_, for God's sake!  
            The marble settled onto Jack.  Race let out a breath, surprising himself.  
            "You didn't tell him, did you?" Spot whispered harshly.  
            "Of course not, you think I'm stupid?"  
            "Well, you know, you could've fooled me."  
            "Just for that, I'm telling him."  
            "You tell him and I'll fix you so good, you won't be able to tell girls from boys."  Oh, Race had to remember that threat for later use.  
            "We're in New York, dumbass; normally, you can't tell girls from boys _anyway_!"  
            "Fuck you, man."  
            "You wish."  
            "Don't tell him."  Did they realize that Racetrack was standing there, listening?  Did they realize Racetrack knew what they were talking about?  
            "Fine."  Jack's shoulders slumped slightly.  Spot's eyes softened to their natural color, a deep, ocean blue, and he turned away.  
            "I'm getting another drink."  He walked towards the cooler by the door, swaying slightly.  
            And that wasn't even the _strange_ thing that happened.  
  
==  
  
            The strange thing that happened is that Spot asked Racetrack later on in the night to come to the Coffee Tree with him the next morning.  
            Of course, he had been very, very drunk.  More so than before.  And after starting a game of '7 Minutes in Heaven with Spot (Girls _and_ Boys), Race reasoned that Spot had not been in his right mind.  
            He knew that if Racetrack went with him, it would be a perfect time for Race to strike, right?  He knew he was a dead man, right?  Just to humor him, Race had said sure, why not?  
  
==  
  
_Present_  
  
            "All you need to do is go with him to that Coffee Bush.  At precisely 11:35 a.m. you are to make sure he is in the car again; then get out of there, Anthony."  
            "Then who's taking care of him?"  
            "Little Vince."  Racetrack gaped.  Thank the Lord that his father couldn't see him now.  He couldn't close his mouth properly.  "Anthony?" his father said, sounding more annoyed than worried.  
            He recovered his senses.  "Little Vince?!" he screeched into the phone.  Then:  
            "I mean," in a whisper, "Little Vince?"  
            "What's wrong with Vince?" his father demanded, sounding very put-out.    
            "Well, Dad, he's not exactly very," he gulped, "_discreet_."  There was silence on the opposite side of the conversation.  
            "But he gets the job done, Anthony."  That was it.  End of discussion.  "Now go get your roommate and have some coffee."  Before he hung up, Race swore he could hear his father cackle into the other end of the line.  
  
==  
  
End Chapter One  
  
==  
  
[A/N]:  This is by far the longest chapter I have ever written in my entire life.  This is sad.  
  
**Studentnumber24601**:  Thank you so much for your review!  Now watch as Spot does a strip tease on _your_ table!  
  
Spot:  Er…  
  
MS:  Remember, you're _drunk_, Spot.  
  
Spot:  Right.  Okay.  []proceeds[]  
  
**Sapphy**:  Haha.  ItalianHitman!Race is incredibly sexy.  I lurve him.  Feel free to use him in any of your fics because your writing rocks!  
  
**Mushs-grl1**_3_:  ThanQ for the review!  ::Hands her a biscotti, because they are delicious and Italian::  
  
Read and Review PLEASE!!!


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer:  Nope, don't own Newsies.  
  
==  
  
Death to Spottie  
  
==  
  
Chapter Two   
  
==  
  
Madison Square  
  
==  
  
            It was 11:22 am and Race and Spot were sitting at a small, café style table next the windowed wall inside The Coffee Tree.  Race marveled at the simplicity of the shop.  Wooden tables, wooden bookshelves, a wooden counter.  Yet it exuded comfort.  The smell of freshly roasted coffee and the dim lights made Race feel sleepy.  But then, wouldn't that be what the shop wanted?  
            "Ah, coffee," Spot said lazily, then took a small sip of his drink.  "Caffeine is life."  
            "Yeah, sure," Race agreed nervously.  His eyes flicked to his black wristwatch.  It glowed 11:24.  
            They had left their semi-wrecked room just moments after Racetrack ended his conversation with his father.  Spot had been difficult, in the beginning.  
  
==  
  
_  
            He was tangled in his new sheets and when someone whispered in his ear he saw stars explode behind his eyelids and felt a steady throbbing in his brain.  
            Spot snuggled deeper into his sheets.  
            Race reached out to shake his shoulder, but then quickly pulled his extended hand back, uncomfortable.  
            "Spot."  His voice was too loud; it grated against his ears.  He heard Spot grunt, and pretty soon all Race could see was the top of Spot's brunette head hidden under his gray blanket.  
            "Dude, wake up," he tried again.  
            This time was a success.  Spot ripped the sheets off, revealing a slight body clad only in boxers.  Race turned away.  
            He heard the other boy groan, then say, "Race?  Turn off that goddamn radio."  His voice was scratchy, like he was trying to speak after swallowing a lump of cotton.  
            "The radio's not on," he stated bluntly.  
            "Shh!  It's too loud."  
            "Oh."  He paused.  "Okay," he said, enunciating.  "I'm turn-ing off the ra-di-o."  
            "Thanks."  
            Apparently when Spot was hung-over, he hallucinated.  He stumbled out of bed and fell to the floor with a thud.  
            "Ow, my butt."   
            "That's nice."  Race waved it away.  "So.  Get dressed."  
            "Why?"  He craned his neck to look at Race.  He had to squint.  There was something around the little Italian that was glowing.  Oh, wait, no.  That was just the glare from the sun.  "Ow, my head."  
            "Coffee."  
            That was the only answer Spot needed to hear._  
  
==  
  
            A sporty red car was parallel-parked haphazardly outside the small coffee shop.  On the drive up, Race had clutched nervously at his seat belt and his hand had strayed near the emergency brake while Spot weaved in and out of traffic, squeezing into impossibly tight spaces in between cars and running red lights.  
            Did Spot normally drive like that?  Or was it just a hangover-induced recklessness?   
            Either way, when they reached The Coffee Tree, Race had clambered out of the car with as much speed and grace as his limbs would allow.  
  
==  
  
            11:32.  Race cleared his throat awkwardly.  Spot stared at him from over the brim of his Styrofoam cup.  He grunted.  
            "We should get going."   
            Spot lowered his cup and picked up his croissant delicately.  "Why?"  
            "I…uh…"  He struggled for an acceptable lie.  "Meeting someone for lunch."  
            Spot seemed to accept this.  He nodded, then took a large bite out of his pastry.  
            "Why don't you…uh…go ahead and get in the car?"  Race twisted his watch around his wrist.  "I've got to go…to the bathroom."  
            Spot nodded again.  Racetrack raced away.  
            When he returned from 'the bathroom,' wholly expecting Spot to be gone, or maybe dead and chopped up into bits and pieces, he stopped in shock when he saw Spot sitting in the same seat, contently biting into his croissant.  
            _Shit_.  This was not going according to the plan.  
            "Hey, man."  His voice cracked when he spoke.  "I thought you were going to be in the car?"  
            Spot glanced at the nervous man next to him and blinked.  "Huh?"  Race mentally slapped his forehead.  Spot probably hadn't fully awoken yet.  He sank dreadfully into the seat opposite his roommate.  He watched as Spot mechanically sipped his coffee, then bit into his half-eaten baked good.  He chanced a glance at his watch.  
            11:35.  
            That was when, outside, Spot's beautiful red car blew up in a blast of fire and smoke.  Scrap metal flew into the walls of nearby buildings.  People screamed and ducked and pointed and ran.  
            "Holy shit.  My car just exploded," Spot said.  A moment of eerie silence where Spot downed the rest of his drink.  
            "Er," said Race.  
            People outside were still screaming.  He could faintly hear the sound of sirens wailing from not-so-far-away.  
            "Holy _shit_.  My fucking _car_ just fucking _exploded_!"  Spot jumped out his seat and ran outside.  The police had already gathered, shooing people away.  He dashed through their outstretched arms and cried out loud.  It sounded something like, "Aagh!  My BABY!  Death!  Doom!  Doom!  Doom!!"  Of course, Racetrack had been listening from inside the coffee shop, not sure if he should show himself, and the fact that he could even _hear_ Spot amidst the sirens and fire and screaming was impressive enough.  
            He left a ten dollar bill on the table and walked out the door, quickly losing himself in the winding streets of New York City, leaving the disaster area behind him.  
  
==  
  
End Chapter Two  
  
==  
  
[A/N]:  Relatively short chappie, sry.  
  
THANX TO REVIEWERS:  
  
**parkranger**:  HA.  I will not tell who the brunette was.  HAHA HA.  I'm EVIL.  Greatly EVIL.  Oh, and I changed the whole Jack Kelly/Blonde thing.  Weird.  I've seen Newsies like 50 thousand times, but I always think of Jack as a blonde.  
  
**Sapphy**:  ::has a mental image of Spot in drag poking at a salad and sipping his water::  ::dies::  BTW, I LOVE Drunk!Spot.  He's fun to work with.  Although Hungover!Spot is fun, too.  
  
**uninvisible**:  ::calls::  Spot!  Give Uninvisible a striptease, too!  
  
Spot:  ::whines::  
  
MS:  Do it now, bitch!  
  
Spot:  ::stripteases::  
  
**Strawberry Shake**:  HA.  I will never tell you Spot's secret.  (actually, yes, I will.  It will be revealed LATER!)  HA.  This fic started out in my head all nice and simple, but now I've decided to complicate things and such.  Much fun.  Hope you like it!  
  
**SpotLover421**:  WOOT!  What if Race actually _does_ kill Spot!?  Wouldn't that be EVIL?  Wouldn't it?!  Hehe.  Oh, and you'll find out about Spot eventually…  Thanx for reviewing!  
  
**LeftyHiggins**:  LeftyHiggins, that's a cool name.  I'm left-handed.  Are you left-handed?  'Cause if you are, YOU ROCK.  Right-handed people suck.  HA Ha.  I'm just kidding.  Thanx for reviewing!  
  
PLEASE REVIEW!  THANK YOU MUCH!


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Newsies.  
  
==  
  
Death to Spottie  
  
==  
  
Chapter Three  
  
==  
  
Madison Square  
  
==  
  
Two hours and twenty-four minutes before Racetrack killed the thorn in Higgins Senior's side, Spot and his girlfriend were in a club because Spot liked to get drunk. His girlfriend didn't like it very much, but who was she to argue with when he confessed his love to her very loudly after climbing on top of the bar?  
One hour and forty-eight minutes before and everything has gotten very blurry so that when Spot sees Jack and he holds onto his shoulder and says, "Meet my girlfriend," he doesn't notice how Jack and his girl's eyes linger on each other appreciatively.   
"I'm Sarah," his girlfriend says, "Sarah Jacobs."  
Cowboy holds out his hand and says, "Jack Kelly," and when they shake he holds her hand a little bit too long. But, of course, Spot is very drunk and wouldn't be able to piece together what was going on, anyway. They were all quite tipsy, after all.  
One hour and twelve minutes before and curiously Jack and Sarah are gone. Later Jack and Sarah will claim a momentary lack of reason; one that lasted a good five days. Spot's worried in a way those who are drunk can be—he's not.  
Fifty nine minutes before and Spot was not having so much fun anymore. The haziness was annoying; he could barely distinguish one face from another. The music that once swept over him, pulsing and refreshing, now throbbed and pushed at his temples.  
Thirty-two minutes before and Spot wanted to leave. He stumbled around the dark room, searching in earnest for Sarah. She was probably not as inebriated as he, and therefore could drive safely home, or maybe they could walk. Fresh air sounded heavenly right about now. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, sticky with sweat.   
Seventeen minutes before and Sarah and Jack were kissing in the back corner when Spot happened upon them.  
"What the fuck?"  
Jack and Sarah both sprung apart like they were electrocuted.  
The standard, "It's not what it looks like!" followed by innocent looks and hot cheeks.  
To which Spot slurred, "Of _course_ not. But it's what it _is_!"  
Five minutes before and Spot is outside. The fresh air isn't so refreshing and smells of cigarettes and exhaust fumes and piss and his head still hurts. He feels something lurch in his stomach, like his insides are being rearranged. He falls into the alley between the two clubs just when a gunshot sounds from further down. When he looks up he thinks he sees a man and a gun but everything is growing darker so he can't trust what he sees.  
He stumbles out again and retches on the sidewalk; the people who sees scurry out of his way and give him resentful looks. A few more steps down he has fainted.  
In the morning he won't remember anything.  
  
==  
  
End Chapter Three  
  
==  
  
[A/N]: Sorry for the extremely long break with this fic. I tell you, there should be a class for procrastinators that instructs them in the art of speeding up. That would help me a lot, with turning in homework, and projects, and writing, and practicing, and running…  
  
I feel bad. Every time I write Spot in his fic he's either drunk or hung-over or caffeine-deprived. And Sarah is always a cheating bitch in my stories. Hm…I feel bad for that, too, because she really isn't that bad.  
  
THANX TO REVIEWERS:  
  
**parkranger**: Yay! I revealed the brunette in the picture! It only took me about three months. Haha. Sorry for the long wait and short chapter. Yes, Racetrack ditching the scene was NOT cool, but a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do. You know?

**Strawberri**** Shake**: I love Spot, 'nuff said. Thanx for the review!!! Much love.

**Sapphy**: Spot is very disgruntled right now because you threw yourself at him. He gets enough of that randomly on the streets, you know? But secretly he loves it. Don't you, Spot? [no response] DON'T YOU, SPOT? [MS fwaps him on the back of his head]   
Spot: Of COURSE. I don't know how I could ever live without the scary stalker bitches…  
MS: HEY!  
Spot: I mean, lovely ladies such as yourselves.  
MS: By the way, Sapphy, I'd love for you to put this fic up on your website. What an honor! Thanx for the review!

**uninvisible**: People who are easily amused lead fascinating lives. I'm serious. ::accepts the virtual twenty so she can buy some virtual martinis with her virtual fake ID:: THANK YOU! Hehe.

**SpotLover421**: Thanx for the review! Oh, you'll find out what's gonna happen with Race and Spot, don't worry. I haven't abandoned this fic, just too lazy to do anything with it for the moment. Meep.  
  
PLEASE REVIEW! THANK YOU MUCH!


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